The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Gerald Verner

  “Poor, poor, woman,” said the rector gently. “She was found dead in her bed. I can hardly believe it, but it’s true, I’m afraid.”

  “Dead?” repeated Miss Titmarsh, thoroughly shocked. “Oh no—It can’t be possible.”

  “It is, all the same,” declared Major Panting with a hint of relish in his voice. “The police are at the Court now.”

  Miss Titmarsh looked at him with horrified eyes.

  “You don’t mean—that she—she took her own life?” she almost whispered.

  “I’m quite sure she didn’t,” declared the rector stoutly. “Lady Conyers would never be guilty of that—no matter under what provocation. She was a good Christian lady. Such a thing would be against all her principles.”

  “Well, that only leaves two possibilities,” remarked the major reflectively. “Either an accident—or murder.”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be murder, surely?” exclaimed Miss Titmarsh. “Not another. One was enough . . .” She stopped abruptly and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Dear Miss Titmarsh, don’t distress yourself,” said the rector kindly. “It must be a terrible shock to you—as indeed it is to all of us—but you are in no way to blame, you know.” He patted her shoulder gently and the major eyed her keenly.

  “What did you mean by ‘one was enough’, Miss Titmarsh?” he said. “You don’t think these deaths were connected, do you?”

  “No—no, of course not. That would be impossible, wouldn’t it?” she said a little incoherently. She replaced a strand of hair that had escaped from under her hat, with a shaking hand. “These things are so terrible when they happen,” she went inconsequently. “One doesn’t know what to think. . . .”

  The rector shook his head sadly.

  “It’s all very disturbing,” he said. “I don’t understand it. This poor lady might have taken an overdose of some sleeping drug—I gather it was something of the sort that caused her death—or . . .” He stopped and shook his head again.

  “Or she might have been given it, eh?” finished the major. “Well, it’s no use conjecturing until we know the full facts. Are you going up to Marbury Court, Rector? If you are, I’ll walk part of the way with you.”

  The Reverend Oswald Hornbeam was obviously uncertain what to do.

  “I suppose, I ought to call and offer my condolences,” he said doubtfully. “Really, it’s very difficult to know what to do for the best. What can one say under the circumstances? It’s not always easy to do the right thing. . . .”

  “No—very awkward for you,” said Major Panting sympathetically. “You fellers always have the unpleasant jobs in cases like this. . . .”

  “I just can’t believe that it’s really happened,” declared Miss Titmarsh plaintively. “Such terrible things—in our little community. . . . They really seem impossible. . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know how you feel,” said the rector staring abstractedly at the sky. “First that poor fellow at Jackson’s Folly, and now this tragedy at the Court. Dreadful, dreadful.”

  “You surely don’t connect them in anyway?” said Major Panting.

  The Reverend Oswald Hornbeam looked at him with a suddenly startled expression on his mild face.

  “Good gracious, my dear fellow, of course not! I was only saying. . . .”

  “I must be getting along to luncheon,” said Miss Titmarsh. “A very frugal meal. One has no appetite this sultry weather. . . .”

  “I can always manage a good steak, myself,” remarked the major, and Miss Titmarsh gave a delicate shudder. “Nothing like a good steak. Puts new life in you.”

  Miss Titmarsh looked as if she could do with “new life”. Her thin face was drawn and pasty as she wished them “goodbye” and tripped away.

  Major Panting stared after her retreating figure with his small eyes almost closed.

  “Never did like that woman,” he remarked. “Don’t trust her, somehow. If she gave someone a dose of arsenic one day it’ud never surprise me. . . .”

  The rector smiled.

  “She’s very conscientious,” he said non-committally.

  “Remember all that fuss she made about the drawing?” asked the major. “Accused me—me! As if I’d waste my time drawing a picture of the old scarecrow. . . . Did you see it, by the way?”

  The rector shook his head and the major chuckled reminiscently.

  “It was damn good, whoever did it,” he said. “They used a blue pencil and her nose was really a work of art—drop at the end and all. You know how she looks on a cold day?”

  “If I’m going up to Marbury Court before luncheon,” said the rector, changing the subject. “I’d better be on my way. Are you walking with me?”

  It was pretty clear that he would much rather Major Panting did not, but he was disappointed. The major agreed with alacrity and they started to walk up the hill together. For a few minutes neither of them spoke and finally it was the Reverend Oswald who broke the silence.

  “You know,” he said hesitantly, “I can’t help feeling that something unpleasant is happening—something that will destroy the peace of our little village.”

  “I should say enough has happened to do that already,” remarked Major Panting.

  “I don’t think you quite understand what I mean,” said the rector. “It may be imagination, but I am conscious of a sense of evil. It seems to me to be in the very air. I have a premonition that something evil has been loosed among us. . . .”

  “What you want is a good stiff whisky,” retorted the major. “Come along to my place and I’ll give you four fingers of Johnny Walker. That’ll pull you up. Soon settle your nerves.”

  “No, no, thank you,” replied Mr. Hornbeam. “I like my little nightcap, but not in the day time. I’m a trifle tired that’s all. I must be getting old.”

  “We’re all getting old,” said Major Panting. “The only thing most of us have to look forward to these days is getting old peacefully and dying comfortably in our beds. The trouble is, we don’t know what’s in store for any of us.”

  “No,” said the rector thoughtfully, “we don’t know what’s in store. Perhaps,” he added, “that is just as well.”

  Chapter Four

  Miss Titmarsh ate her frugal luncheon—which wasn’t so very frugal after all, consisting of a large chop, tinned peas and potatoes, followed by canned peaches and cream—washed up the dishes, looked round her neat kitchen to make sure that everything was in its proper place, and went through into her little sitting-room.

  She felt better now. Her headache had almost gone. Food, she decided was what she had needed. Now, after a short rest, she ought to feel quite well again.

  She drew the curtains over the window to shut out the light, adjusted a slightly crooked photograph of herself as captain of the school hockey team, and decorously laid herself down on the old horse-hair sofa to rest.

  She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself for sleep, but sleep would not come so easily. Her brain refused to relax. A confused jumble of impressions and events crowded through her mind—vague nightmares all tending toward one focal point, the one thing she was trying so hard to forget.

  She felt, after a little while, that her headache was returning—coming back with little stabs of pain until her whole head was throbbing. She must do something to relieve it. If it continued she would go mad.

  She got up, went into the microscopic bathroom, took some aspirin and bathed her forehead. Then she made herself a strong cup of tea and began to feel a little better.

  It was no use worrying. Unless she did something foolish nobody would ever find out. But she must be very careful. It was so necessary not to make a mistake after all these years. What was done was done and nothing could alter it. That reminded her. There was something that had to be done, and done at once.

  She went over to the small bureau in the corner of the sitting-room, sat down and opened an exercise book.

  Then she selected a blue pencil and began to write. . . .
/>   *

  The saloon bar of the Bull was crowded. It didn’t require any considerable number of people to achieve this result for the bar was extremely small—a room that had been converted from the original bar-parlour when the Bull was only an ale-house, frequented solely by farmhands and labourers.

  The sole topic of conversation seemed to consist of the tragic death of Lady Conyers and the discovery of the dead man in Jackson’s Folly. In that incredibly swift way that things have a habit of leaking out in an English village, the nursery rhyme on Lady Conyers’ door and the other portion of it pinned on the door of Jackson’s Folly, had become common property and there was much discussion concerning it.

  It had taken hold of peoples imagination and lifted the whole thing into the category of the sensational story.

  Inspector Crutchley, making himself as inconspicuous as possible in a dark corner of the bar, sipped his pint of draught beer and listened to the various comments that were being made, but if he had ever hoped to pick up anything useful, he soon came to the conclusion that his hope was in vain.

  Most of them were repetition interspersed with several wild and completely impossible theories that had neither facts nor plausibility to recommend them.

  The inspector was not feeling very happy about the matter. It was something quite out of his normal sphere, and he had not made a great deal of headway. The identity of the dead man still remained unknown. There was nothing in his pockets to say who he was or where he came from. Crutchley had taken the precaution, however, of taking his fingerprints and sending specimens of them to Scotland Yard. He wasn’t very sanguine that this would achieve any result but it was a matter of routine. It was to have very far reaching results, but he couldn’t foresee that at the moment.

  The thing that worried him and appeared to be the greatest puzzle of the whole case was the death of Lady Conyers and the obvious connection between it and the murder at Jackson’s Folly. The doctor’s examination of the dead woman had definitely precluded the possibility of accident. She had not died from an overdose of sleeping pills or anything of that kind. She had died from poison—cyanide of potassium. Traces had still remained in a glass of water on her bedside table. She might have taken it deliberately or she might not. If not, then this was another murder.

  Inspector Crutchley was of the opinion that it was. Otherwise how could the nursery rhyme written on the door of her bedroom he accounted for? It was hardly likely that the dead woman, if she had committed suicide, would have scrawled it there. And it linked up with the other part of the same rhyme on the paper pinned to the door of Jackson’s Folly. There must definitely be a connection between the two deaths, though “what” and “how” was beyond Inspector Crutchley’s imagination. Her ladyship had apparently been to the ruined house, or someone had taken her scarf there. . . .

  It was all very curious and very perplexing. What exactly was the reason for the nursery rhyme? Memories of his childhood came back to Inspector Crutchley. His lips moved silently as he repeated to himself the old rhyme which he had heard at his mother’s knee.

  “This is the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Dog that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Cow with a crumpled horn that tossed the Dog that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Maiden all forlorn who milked the Cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the Dog that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Man all tattered and torn who kissed the Maiden all forlorn who milked the Cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the Dogs that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Priest all shaven and shorn who married the Man all tattered and torn who kissed the Maiden all forlorn who milked the Cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the Dog that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

  “This is the Cock that crowed in the Morn that waked the Priest all shaven and shorn who married the Man all tattered and torn who kissed the Maiden all forlorn who milked the Cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the Dog that worried the Cat that killed the Rat that ate the Malt that lay in the house that Jack built.”

  That was all the inspector could remember. He thought that was the lot. It wasn’t very illuminating as regards throwing any light on the reason for writing those bits of it on the doors. And yet the person who had done it must have had a reason. Blue pencil in both cases, too. Did that mean anything?

  Inspector Crutchley shook his head slowly. He couldn’t see any reason in any of it. Here was an unknown man bludgeoned to death in an empty house, and a highly respectable lady poisoned in her bedroom. There was some connection between these two incidents, but what? Of course, they hadn’t got all the facts yet. Perhaps there was something in Lady Conyers’ life that linked her with the thin-faced little man in Jackson’s Folly. Maybe, that would come out during the inquiry. “This is the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.” The dead man hadn’t been unlike a rat, either. What was the malt he was supposed to have eaten? Was there something there? According to the other part of the rhyme on Lady Conyers’ door, it was she who killed him. “This is the cat that killed the rat.” That might be true, but who had killed her? Or had she killed herself? Again the inspector’s head moved slowly from side to side. He didn’t think she had. In his opinion it was the same person who had killed both the little man in Jackson’s Folly and Lady Conyers and for some reason best known to himself, or herself, had left the scrawled rhymes behind. . . .

  Inspector Crutchley sighed. It was a puzzling business and no mistake. There’d have to be two inquests and they’d cause a lot of stir in the neighbourhood. Both ’ud probably have to be adjourned. He finished the remainder of his beer and left the Bull a little dispirited. It had been a long and weary day and he hadn’t got very much to show for his labours. Certainly nothing much to report to the Chief Constable with whom he had an appointment on the following morning.

  *

  Colonel Blair, the Assistant Commissioner for the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, finished reading the letter and its accompanying report, pushed it away from him, leaned back in his chair, and smoothed his neat grey hair with a well-kept hand. There was a slight frown on his face which cleared after a moment as he stretched out his hand for the house telephone and, lifting the receiver, gave an extension number.

  “Is that you, Superintendent?” he asked when he was put through. “Come along to my office at once, will you please.”

  At the other end of the line, Mr. Budd put down the receiver, looked across at Sergeant Leek who was laboriously writing in a tattered exercise book, and sighed.

  “No rest for the wicked,” he grunted. “Blair wants me.”

  The sergeant raised his eyes and his lean face lengthened.

  “I ’ope it ain’t nothin’ that’s goin’ to be difficult,” he said.

  “What difference will it make to you?” demanded Mr. Budd as he hoisted himself with difficulty out of his chair. “You never do anything anyway. What’s all that you’re scribbling?”

  The melancholy sergeant’s eyes brightened.

  “I’m making notes fer me autobiography,” he said.

  “Your what?” snorted Mr. Budd.

  “Me autobiography,” answered Leek proudly. “I’m goin’ to write me reminiscences. They’ll be sensational.”

  “They won’t be very long, anyway,” grunted his superior. “You’ve never been awake long e
nough to have many!”

  He lumbered out of the office and made his way to the assistant commissioner’s room.

  “Sit down, Superintendent,” said Colonel Blair, and when the stout man had lowered himself carefully into a chair: “I’ve had a request from the chief constable of Blankshire for assistance.” He tapped the letter that lay on the desk before him. “There’s been a murder and a death at a place called Marbury under peculiar circumstances—very peculiar circumstances,” he added.

  “A murder and a death?” repeated Mr. Budd questioningly.

  Colonel Blair smiled.

  “Yes,” he answered. “There’s no doubt the one was murder but they’re not quite sure about the other. It could be suicide.”

  “I see, sir,” said Mr. Budd sleepily. “What are the peculiar circumstances?”

  “I’ve only the barest details here,” said the assistant commissioner. “Apparently there’s a nursery rhyme mixed up in it. The murder took place at a place called Jackson’s Folly, an old ruined house in the neighbourhood, and there was a bit out of ‘The House that Jack Built’ scrawled on a page from an exercise book in blue pencil and pinned on the door. . . .”

  He related the discovery made by the Reverend Oswald Hornbeam on the morning he had gone forth in search of mushrooms.

  “That’s not all,” he continued. “There was another part of the same rhyme written, again in blue pencil, on the bedroom door of the woman who died, Lady Conyers. She was either poisoned with cyanide of potassium by someone, or she took the stuff herself.”

  “Suicide?” remarked the superintendent and Colonel Blair nodded.

  “The police think it was murder, too,” he said, “but they’re not sure. Apparently this woman was a big bug in the district, wife of Sir Basil Conyers, old family, dates back to 1672. It’s because of that that the chief constable has asked for our help. He’s a bit scared of making any mistakes. If there are any mistakes made, the Yard will take the can back.”

  “Who was the dead man, sir?” asked Mr. Budd. “Was he a member of an old family too?”